


descension

by Puns4eva



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale is a Little Shit (Good Omens), Crowley is Bad at Being a Demon (Good Omens), Fallen Angel Aziraphale (Good Omens), Genderfluid Aziraphale (Good Omens), Genderfluid Crowley (Good Omens), M/M, aziraphale: i'll wear black! all black!, aziraphale: ill never touch another tie, aziraphale: yes... yes i suppose we will, crowley: and?, crowley: now that ur a demon we have to give u a makeover, crowley: wait maybe slow down uh
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-24
Updated: 2020-02-24
Packaged: 2021-02-27 19:04:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22880728
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Puns4eva/pseuds/Puns4eva
Summary: It started at exactly 2:45 in the afternoon.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 26





	descension

**Author's Note:**

> and i oop -

He had just begun to dial Crowley by the time he began to consider what it could have been. 

Aziraphale had been getting increasingly uncomfortable throughout today, sweating to the point of loosening his collar. He had checked the thermostat around seven times within the last two hours, each time lowering the temperature a few degrees. 

After that realization, he had assumed it was because his wings needed to give them a good preen. His next guess was that he was going through a molt, which, while annoying, was necessary whilst he had a physical body.

And then it started to burn. 

Now, here is he is, dizzy, tired, and terrified, and in so much pain he’d rather listen to Upstairs’ take on human revolutions over cold tea. Whilst “My Favorite Things” played in the background.[1]

And it was all tied with a pretty little bow that was akin to the sensation of _falling._

Endlessly.

At speeds that surely would discorporate him and kill any normal and abnormal human being on impact.

His crepes from earlier this morning make a dazzling, pungent reappearance.

He manages to refocus on the task at hand when Crowley’s voice grows panicked over the line.

“Ah, C-Crowley, dear, my sweet boy, do come over to the library, please. Post-haste.” It’s simply miraculous that his voice is staying even relatively level and not wobbly. Like a poached egg. The ones at the Ritz are particularly splendid, cooked perfectly (nearly) every time. [2]

“ - n my way, the Heaven are you doing? I swear, your lot just loves being mysterious and vague. Can’t say ‘hello, come over for tea, maybe’ without talkin’ upside down and backward, yeah?”

“My dear boy, I hate to interrupt, but we might not have time for tea, I think I’m broken.”

There’s a long pause from Crowley’s side, to where Aziraphale isn’t quite sure he’s stopped talking or the line disconnected. When Crowley responds, finally, his voice is much softer than Aziraphale’s used to. “Angel, what’s going on? Everything’s tickety-boo, and all that?”

“Yes, yes - I mean, no, not really, it hurts quite a bit, actually.” Crowley starts to talk again, but Aziraphale doesn’t hear him over the ringing in his ears. He’s slipping, he supposes. “Er - Crowley dear, no rush, but how far away are you?”

“Five minutes being the most, with two as the least, if I drive through a few parks. Be divine and stay on the phone, sweetheart.”

“Must I? I really want to have a lie-down, just a little one. Take one of those naps you so adore.” The sound of Crowley skidding through traffic makes him laugh the slightest bit, which turns into a sob when it jostles his wings. The fire spreads to the base of his wings, and he squeezes his eyes shut against it.

And wakes up to the sound of Crowley busting down the door.

The second thing Aziraphale notices is the pain engulfing his whole body. Pain is a vicious thing, yes, but he usually hasn’t been bested by it. Shutting down neural pathways is easy enough should he break something, but this is in his essence. 

It’s agonizing, paralyzing, and it’s getting increasingly hard to focus on anything aside from it. His head is pounding, and so is every other part of this body, in a sort of pain that he can’t describe in English without every word being a loud, desperate swear.[3]

. 

He just barely processes Crowley pulling him close over the tsunami of sensation, his barriers rubbed raw. The demon’s emotions spill into his, and he’s choking on them - his awareness swells in one horrifying moment, and he feels Crowley’s scapula snap and repair itself under his fingers. 

And he plummets.

1This isn’t to say that he dislikes Julie Andrews or the Sound of Music. He’s just recently found he likes a mix of classical music and obscure Queen songs, recently. He half blames it on the Bentley, but the number of times he’s found himself playing “Spread Your Wings” this week speaks otherwise.[return to text]

2At this point, he had started to become the slightest bit delirious with pain, his mind wandering every few seconds.[return to text]

3Enochian is an easier language, being the one embedded into what he likes to call his soul, but it’s a bit lacking when it comes to what he’d deem appropriate in this situation.[return to text]


End file.
